A New Beginning
by Lady Enigmatic
Summary: A look into Wellard's past before he came aboard the Renown. One-shot.
1. Part 1

Disclaimer: **Wellard is mine, all mine. C.S. Forester and A&E can't have him! Alright, alright. I admit, I don't own anything- I accept defeat. :(**

**Dedicated to Terence Corrigan, on his birthday today, August 8th. (I barely and miraculously made my deadline, woohoo!) Please review; I'd like to know if this idea was worthwhile. **

**I've separated this "one-shot" into three chapters, for readability. **

_A New Beginning_

Henry Wellard had never been fond of the dark. In fact, he dreaded its coming. Nothing good had ever come from it. His twin sister, Isobel, had tried time and time again to convince him otherwise. Her reasoning was that the dark couldn't be _all_ bad- the moon lit up the darkened world in a glowing, white eminence. The stars, too, were beautiful in their shining brilliance. Yet nothing his sister said would budge Henry; the daylight was far better than the nighttime. In the light, everything could be seen easily- not a thing was hidden by the dark or obscured by shadows.

As Henry looked out the small and dirty window of his mother's bedroom, he saw that the day was coming to an abrupt end. Vibrant purple and crimson lined the horizon, announcing the departure of the sun. Even now, the sight of the fading daylight filled Henry with trepidation. It was a beautiful and inspiring sunset, for those who paid attention to it. Henry did not. No, a sunset was the last thing on his mind. His eyes fluttered from the window back to the comatose figure on the bed next to him- his provider, his comforter, _his mother_.

It had started with a simple headache. Their mother often felt sore and tired after a long day working over the steamy fires, washing upper class gentlemens' and ladies' linens all day. The next morning, however, their mother was unable to rise from her bed. Neither Henry nor Isobel had ever seen their mother so fragile. Bridgette, their mother's closest and perhaps only friend, soon came to see her. She told the anxious children that their mother was very, very sick. What she was sick with, Henry would never know. Doctors were persons he never saw. The most they could do for her was touch her face gently with a wet rag when her face was hot, and wrap her in all the blankets they could find when she was cold.

A week later, their mother had shown no signs of improvement. On the contrary, it appeared that her condition had only worsened. Bridgette had mournfully had to inform the two children, eager for news of their mother's well being, that it wasn't likely their mother would survive her illness. Perhaps out of disbelief, or pure shock, neither of the children cried or screamed that it couldn't be true. Both took it silently, withdrawing from the sick room as though Bridgette had merely commented on the weather.

Moira Wellard had always been there for her two children. They had never met their father. He was seldom mentioned by their mother, though perhaps it was better that way. All that the children were told about their father was he was a 'bloody Irishman', but a 'handsome devil'- as Moira had put it. Their mother had also briefly described the radiant blue of their father's eyes. No doubt it had been the first thing she had noticed about him. It had not been easy, being an unmarried mother in an unforgiving time. Though only a poor laundress striving to pay the rent each week, it was Moira's earnest dream that both her children be properly educated one day, instead of only having her simple ability to read and write; that they would grow up to begin families of their own, not broken as hers was. Facing the cold reality, that the chance both her dreams would be fulfilled was bleak, was out of the question.

Neither education or starting a family mattered to Henry at the moment. All that mattered was that his mother, the only one on this earth who loved them, was dying. There. He had finally admitted it. His mother was, indeed, dying. Dear God, it was mad! _His mother._ Who would provide for them once she was gone? To so many people the day of their birth had been a curse, yet to their mother it had been a sincere blessing. Would someone ever love them as she did? The ten short years Henry and his sister had spent on this earth seemed to pain everyone- except their mother. It was distressing how many questions he had no answers for.

He watched his mother with an acute attention for signs of life- the rise and fall of her chest, an involuntary twitch in her exhausted slumber. She was so pale, so deathly still. Putting a gentle hand on her arm, he leaned down next to her face, making sure that breath still came from her. As soon as her son's hand left her arm, a tremor seemed to run through Moira. So fast did it shake her that her eyes fluttered open and she became conscious. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Henry's mother was awake.

The joy of his mother's newfound alertness was short lived. Cold skin touched his own as his mother grabbed his hand. How badly she needed the reassurance that someone was there, that she was not alone. "Henry?" she asked, her voice fatigued by sickness. Though soft, his mother's voice contained a vivid emotion, a desperation that Henry had never heard before.

"Mother," he breathed, his voice cracking. All the words that he had longed to tell her for so long escaped him. What could he say? What comfort, what succor could he give to her- a soul slowly fading? Moira clutched the warmth of her son's hand in hers, her chest rising and falling shakily.

"You- you must p- promise me, Henry," she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper. Eyes that had been dim for so long were now lit up with something quite contradictory of her illness- hope.

"Promise what, Mother?" Henry asked earnestly, stroking his mother's hand gently.

"Promise me, Henry, that you'll look after Issy. Stay strong for her, protect her when I'm gone," she pleaded. Henry could only nod numbly, a horrid realization swooping over him as he took in her words. _When I'm gone._ She had known it too then, all along. It was as if the world had turned upside down. Hearing it from Bridgette, from Isobel, even from himself felt different than hearing it from the subject herself, his mother.

"Do you promise?" she asked, her face aspirant. Henry nodded again, his hands trembling. This was all happening so terribly quickly. Feeling his face grow warm and tears began to well up in his eyes he barely managed to whisper,

"I- I promise." Perhaps it was because her weakness overtook her, or that she had been reassured by her son's words that Moira's tight grip on her son finally relaxed.

Then, a most unexpected thing happened. Moira smiled, and a tranquil look crossed her usually distressed face. Now that she had a reassurance, a promise that her children would look after each other, her mind could be at peace. Her time on this earth was coming to an end, that much was unavoidable. Feeling her strength begin to fade, Moira grabbed Henry's wrist again, pulling him closer to her.

"Know this, Henry," she spoke softly, reaching out a trembling hand to touch his hair. "Know that I love you and your sister both very much. Nothing could keep me from loving you, not even this," she said, gesturing to her fragile body, "And remember, my son, that in the end love will never fail." Taking her weary hands away from his, she settled comfortably onto the frayed and thin bed. She closed her eyes, and smiled wearily. "Farewell, Herry- my son."

With those words, every fiber in Henry's being seemed to panic. She couldn't leave him now! "No," he whispered, but already he could feel her spirit leaving her body, her exhales becoming shallower and shallower, the warmth of her body fading. He fell to the floor, burying his head in his mother's quilt, devastated.

After what seemed like forever, Henry dared to look at his now silent and still mother. All warmth in his body seemed to fade as cold dread filled him. His mother was dead. She had been the only one who had loved them, shown them a particular kindness the world never could. What would happen to them now, the whore's children the public despised, none could tell. If Bridgette pitied them enough, perhaps she would take them in. Then again, perhaps she would not.

Looking outside, Henry saw that the few remaining rays of light had completely vanished from the horizon; the night had begun to set in. Clouds covered every inch of the darkened sky, leaving no room for a moon or stars to shine through. Even Isobel would not be able to find solace tonight.

Henry Wellard had never been fond of the dark. It had intimidated him ever since he could remember. Now was no exception. The dark seemed to swirl around him, choking him with its never ending blackness. For the first time since his mother's illness, Henry wept.


	2. Part 2

It was an icy and bitter Christmas morning. A breeze blew harshly in from the southern sea, making the outdoor atmosphere even more unbearable. Servants hustled around Lord Callahan's house, preparing for the Christmas Meal. Only a few servants stood stationary, huddled inside their quarters or near the kitchen fires, trying to warm their freezing limbs.

Much had changed for Henry since the death of his mother, Moira, a little over a year ago. Bridgette had indeed pitied him and his sister. Pleadingly, she had asked her master, Lord Callahan, whom Moira had washed linens for, if the two children could work about the household- in return for bed and food. Though seeming a tad perplexed with the idea, Lord Callahan had agreed. The children had never seen Lord Callahan, they had only heard rumors about his appearance and manner. Nonetheless, they both were grateful to be saved from the streets.

It was much harder to share a conversation together. Isobel was continuously busy with her work about the kitchens and Henry about the stables. At least the two of them were together, under the same provider, and not worlds apart as so many others were. That was one blessing that Henry would never take for granted.

Yet amazingly, for the first time, Isobel had been asked to fetch a roast from the market- and quickly, or there was to be a reprimand from the cook! It had been a particular busy day so far, being Christmas Day, and with several older servants ill, the cook was forced to rely on other, younger help. The threat that was given if Isobel dallied was quickly dismissed by the ecstatic servant girl. Knowing that she would not be allowed to journey to town alone, she had innocently asked if a stable boy could be her escort. Who else but her beloved brother Henry had been summoned?

The two of the them now walked briskly back from market, shivering in the bitter cold of the winter wind. Despite the frosty chill, a warmth surrounded the hearts of brother and sister. It might as well have been an eternity, rather than a mere trip to market, that the two had been able to spend together, for a joy which no other could grasp or understand had lit up their eyes and faces. It was hard to tell whether their rosy cheeks glowed because of the cold or because of the delight they had in each others' company.

There was, however, a flaw in their conception of a perfect afternoon. That was, getting back to Lord Callahan's house. (For that was what it was called- neither child would ever be able to call their home). The market shops had been considerably crowded, despite the less-than-agreeable weather. The two children, quickly overlooked by everyone, had been the last ones served. Now, both were tired, hungry, and feared the wrath of the impatient cook. Altogether, the trip had taken too much time. Never had the cook been one to issue out forgiveness or compassion; their belatedness was sure to be soundly punished. The escort wouldn't be blamed, no, it would be dear Isobel who would be harshly dealt with.

So, it was Isobel who suggested they take the shortcut through the alleyway. "Herry," she pleaded, "We've been through there several times before, and it will be so much faster!" Henry did not want to go. The alley was a dark and lonely place, only inhabited by its desperate and starving orphans, who had formed gangs among themselves. There were no orphanages in London; this left those without parents or providers to fend for themselves by begging and stealing. Some of them could be quite nasty if some unlucky person happened to cross their path, others were nicer. Thus, Henry was hesitant to make a trip through the alley. With them they carried a particularly heavy and expensive roast- a feast for any group on Christmas Day. But Isobel blinked her eyes and pleaded and pleaded until finally, Henry was broken.

Down the alleyway they dashed, turning down familiar and worn paths behind the snow-covered buildings. Each remembered coming here before with their mother, who had made them promise never to come alone- as it wasn't safe for children. Suddenly, the wall turned down a corner that Henry had no memory of. Cautiously the two crept along until they reached a solid wall- a dead end. Buildings surrounded them on all three sides, towering above them. "This isn't right," said Isobel thoughtfully, who had apparently made a mistake in her navigation. Turning around, she gasped. Four large boys stared at them, ragged and distraught. Their eyes were cold and hungry, their breath fogged in the air. They stared fervently at the brown paper-wrapped package hoisted over Henry's shoulder.

For a moment, no one moved. Then, in a flurry, four figures rushed themselves at Henry, fighting for the precious package. Henry turned and ran blindly, stupidly running into the wall in front of him. He kicked at random, connecting with one of the boy's faces. The wounded boy turned away, holding his bleeding nose. The other three boys seemed only angrier that one of their own had been hurt. Each one pulled on a section of the package, ripping the paper. Red meat gleamed from the tear, and four pairs of eyes lit up with excitement. At that moment, Isobel ran up, slipping on the icy patches of snow. Pushing her way through the mass of boys, she tugged as hard as she could on the their ragged coats, yelling for them to stop.

Annoyed with Isobel's pulling, the largest boy shoved her backwards, causing her to slip on the ice and fall down on her back with a cry of pain. Instinctively, Henry turned to see if his sister was hurt. The moment that he was distracted, the half-covered roast was torn from his hands and a fist slammed into his jaw. Gasping with pain, Henry fell to the ground, blood filling his mouth. As blow after blow fell upon him, he curled into a ball and covered his head. Blow after blow came down upon his body. Would they never stop? Red color flashed in front of his eyes and he fell into unconsciousness.

What seemed to be only minutes later, he slowly came to, blinking open his eyes in the sudden white brightness. It had begun to snow again. Soft flakes fell gently from the sky, covering everything in a frozen, white blanket- including Henry. Just how long had he been out? Brushing the snow from his bruised body, he saw the fallen figure of his sister, her limbs at odd angles and her head resting crookedly against the sharp corner of the building. That was strange. Painfully, Henry crawled over to her, desperately hoping she was alright. Isobel's eyes were closed, her eyelashes covered with snowflakes, her face pallid. With a sickening feeling, Henry recalled where he had seen such a paleness before. It was the same color of death that had crossed his mother's face.

It was then that he realized that his sister was lying in a pool of red- blood. Biting his lip, he touched the cold scarlet that dripped from the from back of her neck. A gash ran the length of her head, oozing dark red into her soft, dark hair. Stricken with anxiety, he thrust his head to her chest, intently listening for the reassuring sign that his sister was still alive- her heart beat. Minute after minute he waited, until he could no longer keep from concluding that there was none. His lip trembled and his face grew warm as salty tears rained down his cheeks.

"Issy," he whimpered mournfully, holding on to one of her cold hands. It was for certain- his sister was dead. _Dead._ And it was his fault. _His fault._ He shouldn't of agreed to go through the alley; he knew it could be dangerous. _He knew._ One year ago, he had promised his mother that he would protect his sister, that he would look after her. _He had promised._ Now, that promise was broken, and nothing could ever mend it. The words echoed and danced back and forth in his head tauntingly, making the silence deafening.

How badly he wanted her to wake up, to have a pulse, to breathe, to be _alive_. Not lying on the ground in a pool of blood, pale, still, _dead_. Now, there was no one for him. Isobel had been the only person left that he could trust with anything, love with his whole heart and to talk to about anything. A tremor of anguish ran through him and he felt his entire being go numb. He was alone.


	3. Part 3

Since that day, everything had changed for Henry Wellard. People treated with such an awkwardness and discomfort that he withdrew from everyone as much as possible. He scarce ate, he scarce slept. How could he, when he was being so isolated? Once again, he felt the familiar ache of lonesomeness, this time in such an intense amount that it was suffocating. This went on for quite sometime- the whispers, the stares, the overwhelming solitude. Until one day, a blubbering servant boy had informed him that his presence was required by Lord Callahan. Yes, Lord Callahan himself wanted to speak to _him,_ a mere stable boy.

Henry had always tried his best to be useful to Lord Callahan. He had always, well, almost always done as he was told. Yet, after Isobel's death, even Lord Callahan had seemed to change his view of the child he had so graciously allowed as a servant under his household. Cautiously, Henry approached the desk of Callahan, fearing this man he had never met before. "Sit down," Lord Callahan commanded. Henry sat. Surprisingly, the Lord's voice had been soft, even kind- perhaps even holding a disguised hint of an Irish accent. Daring to glance up for a swift second, Henry saw that Callahan was not an old man, as he had always assumed he would be. No, he was younger, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties.

"Henry," the Lord began, finally looking up at the boy before him, "I have been terribly distressed since the death of your sister earlier this year." Henry fixed his eyes on the floor. This man had called him Henry, not 'boy', as everyone else had. Perhaps Bridgette had told him his name? "Henry, please, look at me," the Lord asked urgently. Henry noticed his voice was desperate, and filled with emotions he could not interpret.

Slowly, Henry looked up, staring first at the desk at which Callahan sat, then gazing at last into the eyes of his master. He gasped. Lord Callahan's eyes were a familiar brilliant blue, seeming to stare right through his being. Disbelief overcame him as he remembered where he had seen such a color before- it was in the own eyes of his own deceased sister. Henry had always been told he had his mother's eyes- a deep brown, whereas Isobel had always been told that she had _their father's eyes_- a radiant blue. "No," Henry whispered, too shocked to move.

"Yes," the man breathed, smiling. Then, arranging himself back into his serious and lordly self, he cleared his throat and spoke, "For reasons I cannot convey, I feel inclined to give you a future. I have arranged for you to be enlisted as a Midshipman in His Majesty's Service, the navy. This gift is not to be taken lightly," he said, pointing a warning finger at Henry, "For this was not an easy manner, seeing as you have no, connections or, erm... family."

Thus was ended Henry's servant hood under Lord Callahan. There had been no time for sorrow or excitement over this news of his new destiny and newfound relative. Indeed, Henry scare had time to hear the words from the Lord's mouth before his few belongings were packed and he was whisked off to be fitted for his uniform and gather supplies. The rather shattering fact of his departure was that no one had begged for him to stay. No one had cried or smiled, in fact everyone seemed as disinterested about his leaving as they were about everything else. Even Bridgette seemed almost relived at his departure. No longer would she have to feel the need to care for Henry. It was as if her duty, her debt to her long dead friend had been fulfilled. Even though Henry knew to expect as much, a small part of him had still hoped someone would care that he was leaving.

The obvious question, 'why', was never voiced aloud by any of the servants. It was not needed, for everyone seemed to guess at the reasons behind the Lord's sudden kindness to a boy he supposedly hardly knew. The reason that was given, of course, was that Henry deserved an education and a future, and that Lord Callahan was generous enough to offer him one. Henry could only hope that this was indeed the truth, and not that the Lord had tired of suspicious persons and simply wanted to dispose of his remaining illegitimate child.

Now, Henry climbed unsteadily aboard what was to be his home for the next few years, the HMS Renown. Cautiously, he approached the Captain and who he assumed to be the Doctor, talking quietly. That was, Captain James Sawyer, of course. James Sawyer was a man approved and appraised by all sorts of men- one of Nelson's own, even. Or, that was what he had been told by his excited companions in the jolly boat, who were also enlisted as Midshipmen. Surely his stay here would be an honorable and noble one.

Yet there was still so much he had to learn. Reading and writing were things his mother had managed to teach him, somehow, and he supposed that was a start. Perhaps he would make friends here, friends who did not care about his lack of fortune or family, friends he could rely on, as he had his mother and sister. It couldn't be too hard; after what he had already gone through, this would surely be easy in comparison.

As he cast his eyes downward respectfully, he tried to catch the looks exchanged between the Captain and the Doctor. Did their faces show approval, acceptance, or were they merely amused at the sight of an obviously nervous midshipman? Perhaps that was something he would never know; perhaps it was better if he _didn't_ know. He saluted, the salute he had been practicing during the ride down from London.

This was, in a sense, a new beginning for Henry. It was now time to put his former life behind him. Lord Callahan had done a mighty favor to Henry Wellard. Perhaps some day he would be captain of his own ship, and be able to look back at the hateful servants of the Lord's household and laugh. As for a relationship with his father, whether he saw him again or not no longer mattered to Henry. It had been a true blessing that he had put here. For here, aboard the Renown, he could forget his past and start again. He could finally grow up without being shunned or reminded of his dead mother, his dead sister. Best of all, he would no longer be in wonder about his absent patriarch. Now, he knew the truth- and the truth had truly set him free.

Swallowing, he looked up to meet his Captain's gaze. Hoping he sounded much braver than he felt, he recited the words he had been told to say, "Come aboard, sir."

**Das Ende. :) Review?**


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